A bell I struck, yet gentle was my touch;
The cupp'd chamber held well the sound so bright,
I touch'd it once again, my touch was light;
And over and over and overmuch
The sound it sounded where it did was such
I knew not whether I felt love or fright,
But there I held both equal in delight
As built the peal and peak'd: its silver struct-
ure curv'd into my mind, a downward slope;
I left off striking for its tingling...
Or sparkling...fairy dust, a residue
Of something crush'd become as rare as hope
Betwixt body and mind, a virtual thing.
But...sound? Or sight? Or skin? I never knew.
Problemata
O, where is my own brilliance? Will I not
Allow myself to turn my face from you
But for a single moment? Answers sought,
You leave me to my own device and view
Again, again, again. When will I stop
This gauche and importunate querying...
By my own seed to sow and reap this crop,
The seed of hope's subterfuge burying?
Plainly, I plain of this: I suffer love
In flesh and spirit, and by you inspir'd.
Too gladly would you my complaint remove...
Fear springeth from my ache to be desir'd.
O, leave me as you will! 'Tis understood
Each hopeth for the other's greatest good.
Errant
I call my Dulcinea Abelard,
The Nominalist take for an Ideal;
In Truth, with Real foes he'll straightway deal,
I charge myself alone in Folly's ward.
For I have wandered from cause to cause,
And not cause to effect, more logically,
Peripatetic, seek lost chivalry;
At Passion's counterturn, alone, I pause.
Then turn and tilt upon the order'd world,
Observ'd from my eccentric path to sway,
As Reason's reins in my hot fingers curl'd
Direct my mount a most calamitous way.
He's marked ev'ry windmill of my whim,
Save one: 'tis not Wisdom I love, 'tis him.
Rosamunde del Shore A.S. XXXII